Falling Rock National Park officially welcomes baby James K. Shaftacular to the world.  We extend our warmest wishes to the Shaftacular clan, especially Mrs. Shaftacular, who, let’s be honest here, did most of the work.

This robot was specially designed to guide James through the more challenging aspects of the world, including Super Mario Bros. 2 and girls. Congratulations to all those at West Lawn Park.  I look forward to drinking pints with James in about 21 years or so.  In the meantime, maybe orange juice?

Today I turn 32.  I am officially a thirtysomething.  40 is just around the corner, and with that comes early retirement spent entirely on my private yacht.  I only have eight more years to overcome my crippling seasickness.

How does one rightly celebrate the 32nd milestone?  I’m not going to try out for a pro basketball team.  Still too young to freak out and buy a sports car.  Too old for a bouncy castle (or am I?).

What I need is a goal; something to distinguish this year from all the other unimportant birthdays I’ll have.  What I want to have happen, when I’m 85 and looking back on my life, is to say to myself “I remember my 32nd year.  It was the year I _______________________________________.”  That yawning void should be filled with an achievement of exceeding awesomeness.

Drawing another year of Falling Rock is not enough.  Publishing my zombie book is not enough.  I want discovering-the-north-pole excellence.  I want cloning-dinosaurs ambition.  Maybe I should start taking steroids just in case I need the added muscle mass for whatever I’m going to do.

Stay tuned, dear readers.  This year is going to be Francis-Ford-Coppola’s-ego big.  It’s going to be series-finale-of-MASH big.  I literally and figuratively can’t wait for my 33rd year to begin.

Right…now.  Go!